


Thick Thighs and Joyrides

by Unchained_Daisychain



Series: oh my baby how i love your legs [1]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Biting, Blow Jobs on a Boat, Canon, Fluff and Smut, Light Masochism, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough!Paul, Slapping, Thighs, creative use of sunscreen, john's thighs just have that effect on people, petition to bring back mens' bathing suits from the 60s, thigh love, thigh movement 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:48:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22421344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unchained_Daisychain/pseuds/Unchained_Daisychain
Summary: While boating during their downtime in Miami, Paul finds himself constantly distracted by the way John’s thighs look in his tight, black swimming trunks. With a few charming smiles, he lands them some time alone on the boat and seizes the opportunity to devour those legs in all the ways he imagined.-“You didn’t stick around just so we could rock the posh American’s boat, did you?” John asks dramatically.Quietly laughing, Paul eases up behind him and settles a hand on his hip. “Something like that,” he answers lowly by his ear. “I was thinking we could kill the engine somewhere while I get you out of those trunks.”
Relationships: John Lennon & Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Series: oh my baby how i love your legs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1613551
Comments: 17
Kudos: 117





	Thick Thighs and Joyrides

**Author's Note:**

> in honor of the Thigh Movement of 2020, here's the first fic of the leg series. I always have doubts when I'm editing my stuff, but I hope y'all enjoy!

The racing boat cuts through the water like a metal, man-made shark. The fierce winds tousle their hair and has their terry cloth shirts flapping like white sails against their chests. Never one to stay clothed for long, Paul has already abandoned his own shirt, but doesn’t miss the way John’s flies higher above his waistline during the stronger gusts. Offering little sneak peeks of skin above the tight black swimming trunks that hug his thighs. They’re more tan than Paul has ever seen them and beaded with water droplets that occasionally spit on their skin, and it’s increasingly difficult to focus on the Miami scenery skipping by when the sun spotlights them as the main attraction.

He’s been extra pent-up lately because their feet haven’t stopped moving since they hit the ground in America. Between concerts and interviews and sightseeing, he and John seldom receive any alone time that isn’t catered to sleeping. And today Paul feels it all crowding against his bones with insatiable need. Walking along golden sands with John, who always looks so natural and serene when backdropped with the ocean, but unable to sneak any touches to all of that skin on show. 

When he finally feels the boat decrease speed and point its bow to the docks in the distance, a coil of anticipation corkscrews Paul’s gut. 

“You boys ready to call it a day?” Don, the owner of the boat, asks loudly over the humming engine and thrashing waves.

“Sure,” Ringo answers. “I could go for a bite to eat.”

Having nearly popped a stiffy every time John leaned forward with his arms resting on the gunwale, Paul can’t wait to get back to the hotel. Then he can finally haul John and those swimsuited thighs into the shower for a long overdue thigh-fucking, sand and sweat rolling down his back while moans roll out his mouth as he edges towards his climax. 

At least that’s his plan, until, with all of the disappointment of a child, John says, “I haven’t got to drive it yet.”

“You’ll crash in a second, you will,” George tells him with a laugh.

Paul almost wants to toss John overboard for proposing they stay longer, but then an even more enticing idea comes to mind. Affecting a nonchalant tone, he offers, “I’ll stay with ‘im.”

“I don’t know,” Don says hesitantly. “Maybe I should stay, too, to help navigate while the others go ahead.”

“Ah, don’t bother with us.” Placing a hand on John’s shoulders and stitching on a disarming smile—charisma amped all the way up—he says, “Me an’ John used to go boating all the time as young lads, we’ll take real good care of ‘er for you.”

The man sighs. “Well alright. Just make sure you have it docked before sundown.”

John breaks into a beaming smile and salutes exaggeratedly. “Aye aye, Cap’n!” 

When they dock, everyone except John and Paul piles off the boat. George and Ringo meet back up with Brian while Don squints at them. Hesitancy still clinging to his tone, he warns them, “And don’t go out too far.”

Barely hearing him over his own noisy and intrusive thoughts, Paul flashes him a thumbs up before John sends the boat careening across the water for their brief joyride. A wide smile stretching his lips, he turns around to see nothing but the brackish waves and open air. For a few minutes, he basks in the quietude of it all, takes in the sight of John commanding the water as though in a past life he was a sailor who lived and died by the sea. 

Eventually he catches the gentle, fond look on Paul’s face and rolls his eyes after doing a double-take. With a shake of his head, he says, “Thought you stayed behind so you could guide me, not go all heart-eyes on me.”

“You’re gettin’ along alright so far. I’m just admirin’ the scenery, love.”

“What’s that look like, then?”

He smirks, eyes sliding down the curvature of John’s glorious arse and to his thighs. “It’s got thick, muscular legs wrapped up in a pair of snug black swimming trunks. A dead stunning sight, I must say.”

“You didn’t stick around just so we could rock the posh American’s boat, did you?” John asks dramatically. 

Quietly laughing, Paul eases up behind him and settles a hand on his hip. “Something like that,” he answers lowly by his ear. “I was thinking we could kill the engine somewhere while I get you out of those trunks.”

“But I thought you liked them,” John says with a smirk that reveals he already knows the answer to that. “Wore ‘em just for you, love.”

Paul presses a series of kisses to his freckled shoulder, fingers creeping beneath the waistband of the trunks. The skin smooth and warm, begging to be branded, beneath his touch. “I think they look great, but they’d look even better on the floor.”

“Glad to see you weren’t goin’ soft on me after all.”

His fingers dig deeper into John’s side—half-hard cock pressed more firmly, insistently, to his arse. “Quite the opposite, really.”

John shifts back into him, humming in interest, before knocking them both slightly off balance with a sharp turn of the boat. Paul smiles as, with renewed eagerness, he steers them farther towards the mouth of the canal, near a shady bank a safe distance out of sight. When the engine dies, the sudden quiet is almost deafening, only broken up by the steady sway of the boat on the idle water. Against the sweat-sticky skin of John’s neck, Paul can smell the salt from the air as his nose grazes lightly along it. He licks slowly for a taste, fingers finding the large buttons on his shirt. 

John leans more fully into him, tilting his head for the moist lips and titillating bites on his neck. His hand joins on top of Paul’s own to pop the buttons at the top, then untie the knot John made at the bottom until the shirt hangs open over his naked chest. When he turns around, Paul has him crowded so close against the helm of the boat that each breath taken is instantly shared. Dark shades shield the eyes that he knows are the same tint of maple brown as his hair right now under the baking sun. Slow and gentle, Paul slides them from John’s face, clouds parting for the sun, and tosses them onto the floor of the boat, their gazes never straying. The white terry cloth shirt soon follows behind as he nudges it from John’s shoulders, then walks his eyes down all the tan, exposed skin.

“Christ, you look hot,” Paul says, the gruff hint of a growl in his voice. He hauls John closer by the waist, walks them away from the helm and to the more open space of the boat. “C’mere.”

Kissing him filthy and deep, Paul tries to keep their lips locked while both of them lower to the varnished wood floor. He welcomes the weight of John on top of him, knees bent as he straddles his hips. Blunt nails lightly graze over the sensitive skin of John’s back before his hands find purchase on the backs of his thighs, and he squeezes, firm and kneading. 

A moan vibrates between their lips, and Paul can’t quite place its source. But God, he needs to be between those legs _now._

With a burst of strength he suddenly flips their positions, using the grip on John’s thighs as leverage to roll the man to the floor. His breath beats hotly against Paul’s face as he stares up at him with something akin to amazement…unadulterated lust.

“Fuck,” he laughs, all throaty and breathless. “Feeling feisty, are we, Macca?”

He cocks an eyebrow, teasingly shifts away the leg pressed against John’s semi. “Want me to ease up?”

“Not one fuckin’ bit,” he nearly growls.

And that’s exactly what he likes to hear. 

Leaning back in, Paul administers bruising kisses to his neck, lips and teeth latched around the skin with purposeful aggression until it blooms an angry red. So responsive and eager, John inclines into every place of contact. Hips thrusting and neck craning and fingers clutching desperately at Paul’s shoulder blades. Always too many gaps between them.

Then there are his legs—crossed at the ankles around his lower back, securing him tight like a python would its prey despite Paul planning on doing most of the feasting. That predatory desire anchors deep in his bones. His hold on John’s thigh tightens then disappears only to remake contact with a firm slap and even tighter grip that has the man moaning right into his ear. 

_“Yes_ —again,” he pleads. “Harder.”

Another loud, sharp slap and he grinds unabashedly into Paul, fully hard in the tight black trunks now. 

“You like that?” he asks, hand tingling with the authority and heat.

John nods frantically, moans softly.

Paul slaps him again, admonishing, “Can’t hear a nod, love.”

“Mm, fuck—I like it,” he answers in a rush. “I like it.”

Unable to resist the pull in his gut beckoning him to traverse lower, he kisses his way down John’s chest. Like tacks in a map, his teeth leave bites on pecs and tongue trails of saliva over pink nipples. When he feels John’s hand sneaking between their bodies, going for his own cock, Paul reacts with catlike reflexes and stops him with a strong, scolding hand around his wrist.

“Don’t be impatient, love,” he says in a saccharine tone that belies the firm grip and myriad bruises on John’s body.

“These trunks are killin’ me,” he tries, so deliciously pitiful, but Paul doesn’t budge.

“Oh yeah? Well, they’ll be off soon enough.” A wicked smirk plays at his lips, hand remembering the heat beneath its palm. “Unless…maybe I’d rather they stayed on.”

“Baby, pl—”

“Wouldn’t want you to think I don’t like ‘em, after all.”

Inch by inch, he bends John’s right leg back towards his chest (forever amazed by the man’s impressive and unexpected flexibility), until he can effortlessly turn his head to suck a teeth-shaped mark into the side of his thigh. Nails feasting on one side of the skin while his mouth feasts on the other. John’s thigh in his hand and half-supported by his shoulder is a solid and accepted weight. Releasing his wrist, Paul palms his cock through the restricting fabric of the trunks—dancing on the line of too rough and not enough. 

Glancing up at him through a thick fan of lashes—stomach tightening at the raw lust mirrored in John’s own eyes—he murmurs into the reddened skin, “Pass us that sunscreen, Johnny.”

He blinks rapidly, swallows audibly. “Huh?”

Instead of repeating himself, Paul’s hand comes down on his thigh like a cracked whip, the sound traveling across the open water. John hisses and half-moans before scrambling for the nearby sunscreen left in here among the cigarette packs and empty water bottles. After handing it over, his head thuds back against the floor, staring up at the cloudy sky as he swims his hands through his hair. And Paul has to bite his lip from smiling at the sight of him so wrecked from the submission, the rapturous pain.

He stamps a tender, rewarding kiss on the inside of his thigh before uncapping the bottle. True to his cruel word, though, the swimming trunks stay in place, the material simply shoved higher up his legs to reach the thickest, most fuckable parts of John’s thighs. Squirting some of the sunscreen into his hand, he rubs a healthy amount on his inner thighs with deeply massaging fingers. After sliding his own trunks from his hips, he slathers the rest onto his leaking cock, sighing at the relief. 

He lowers down onto a forearm, hovered over John with his tip just above the minute gap of John’s legs. A guiding hand around himself and his lower lip wedged between his teeth, Paul pushes against the resistance. “Fuck,” he breathes, the sound punched out of him, feeling choked as he slowly buries himself between them. “Your thighs are incredible.”

As though to silently brag, John flexes their muscles and Paul groans in his ear, deep and rattling, at the added pressure and friction. For a few seconds he stays there, buried to the hilt. Part of him wants to take this slow, milk the pleasure and rare time they have together. But the feral part of him that has been teased and taunted like a beast in a cage for weeks now doesn’t have the patience for it. And, hungry and white-knuckled, one hand claws at the flesh while his cock slides slickly between John’s legs, hips gaining speed like he can’t help himself. 

“Mm, so bloody _tight,”_ he moans. “And warm.”

To spur him on, John’s large hands cup his arse with all the strength Paul showed his thighs. “Come on them,” he says hotly, breath and raspy tone burning Paul’s ear at the tip. “Please, I want you to.”

Jaw clenched around the sweet desperation of those words, he glances down to see his dick swallowed again and again by John’s legs—tan and glistening from a combination of sunscreen and precome. Against the constricting trunks he also sees the distinct outline of own John’s hard-on, which he has been an obedient enough lad not to touch since his first chiding. But he doesn’t miss the needy thrusts meeting every downward drive of Paul’s hips, reaching like a starving man for any contact he can get.

As he tastes his orgasm inching up from deep in his gut, Paul’s nails dig in sharper like it’s taking root in preparation. John whines, begging, _“Yes,_ mark me,” while his legs spread the slightest bit in invitation, as though the rush of masochistic euphoria has made him forget to keep them squeezed close for the best pleasure. But somehow it only pulls Paul in further. More room, like when John’s arse finally loosens up to him after those first few thrusts.

And God, he can’t last any longer—

He speeds up his hips and, burying a name that tapers into a deep groan at the crook of John’s neck, spills all over his thighs. His teeth latch around the ridge of collarbone as he rides it out, and the spunk serves as an added lubricant that keeps him lazily thrusting because it feels too goddamn good to stop. A hand swims into his hair as he comes down and alternates between tender kisses and naughty bites administered to the salty skin of John’s neck. 

His mind caves in on itself, adrift in much the same way they are on this boat.

Apparently he stays blissed-out and heavy-limbed for too long, because John eventually murmurs into his hair, “Don’t fall asleep on me, Macca. You’ve still got something to take care of.”

Paul hums, nips another love-bite below his jaw. “When have I ever left you hangin’, baby?”

“Well, let’s see,” John answers casually, like he has time for a debate and isn’t positively _aching_ in his trunks, “there was the first time I gave you a handy and you freaked out so much after you came that I was blue-balled for weeks.”

Paul smiles, the corners of it all lazy and post-orgasmic. “It takes some warming up to.”

He slides a hand up the inside of one of John’s wet legs, now in a more lax yet still mind-numbingly seductive splay, to gather some of his own come and remaining sunscreen for lubricant. Then he finally offers some relief by lowering the trunks and taking John’s cock into his hand, hard and thick and twitching for attention. Giving a few leisure tugs, he hears wit fall to the wayside while the man attempts to string his memory together in broken, lust-laden sentences.

“Then there was the time—oh fuck,” he cuts himself off on a paricularly deft twist just below the head, voice steadily losing its heft.

“I’m listening,” Paul purrs with a strong squeeze that stutters John’s breath.

“The—the time I sucked you off so brilliantly….”

“C’mon, baby, you’re so close.”

“I-I sucked you off and you were whining and pullin’ my hair and tryin’ to… tryin’ to touch my tonsils with your prick. When you came that time, yer eyes cl-closed and never opened.”

“I’m sorry, darling. It was late and you give _amazing_ head. Consider that one a compliment.” His tongue flicks along the shell of John’s ear, teeth tugging gently. “But I’ll return the favor now, yeah?”

He smirks before moving back down John’s body, all of this blow-job reminiscing giving him a desire for his length filling his mouth. When he eases John’s trunks the rest of the way down his legs, white spunk smears against the black like paste. He swallows as he watches it, evidence collecting on the article of clothing that started it all. 

Tossing them aside, Paul pays his thighs some extra attention first, sucking more of those bruises John had cried out for and apologetically kissing the marks already dotting him like tattoos. He whines at the sting of Paul’s teeth in him, squirms beneath him like an isolated touch radiates throughout his entire body. A natural trail leads the kisses over the crease of his thigh and to the head of his dick. 

The fingers in Paul’s hair curl in anticipation. 

One hand wrapped securely around the base and his large, seductive eyes locked unflinchingly on John’s, he licks a bold stripe up the underside and sends those amber eyes fluttering from one wet taste alone. He goes to rest his head back against the floor to bask in the pleasure, but Paul makes a noise of discontent.

“Nuh-uh, Johnny,” he tells him with authority. Words lost in the hot and velvety side of John’s cock. “Watch me.”

“Christ,” he whispers, licking his lips—doing as he’s told. 

Feeling the heat in his own gaze burn from his core, Paul suckles teasingly at the head, tongue talented and familiar with the way John’s body ticks. Throat expertly relaxed, he swallows the length inch by inch until the head touches the fleshy back of his throat in a claim all of its own. John pulls tighter at his hair and his left thigh hooks over Paul’s shoulder like he needs to be closer, _closer_ and his eyes work hard to stay focused because he’s still _so_ obedient in this moment even if the same can’t be said for every other aspect of his life. 

Paul hums around his cock, thinking, _So good for me,_ because his mouth is too full to say it. And all the while he sucks John off, his right hand never loses its clutching hold on that thigh, alternately scratching and kneading. 

“Paul, yes, that’s—fuck, that’s perfect.”

Another groan at the praise, head bobbing faster. Fist twisting like a corkscrew the parts of John’s cock his lips don’t reach and his tongue firmly riding the rich vein on the underside. The perfect storm and Paul can practically feel the shocks of it just before John is coming and bucking his hips to plunge even further down his throat, screaming, “Babe, _fu-uck!”_

Eyes watering, Paul takes it like a champ, though. Sucks John through it, relishes the softer moans that follow him coming down. He lets John’s cock slide wetly from his lips, then leans over the gunwale to spit out the strange concoction of spunk and sunscreen into the water. Faintly he realizes it’s the first time he’s ever spit, which John catches on to, even in his post-orgasmic haze.

“Spitting, too?” he asks lazily, voice still carrying the tailend of a moan. “Macca, ‘m gutted.”

Paul turns back around—and _God,_ he looks so stunning spread out there along the floor of the boat like some god of water. An ethereal Poseidon or divine Neptune. His hair a million different shades of auburn, sweat glistening on his hairless chest, a bicep taut and muscular from the bend of it behind his head, and his spent cock soft between the thick thighs that beckon him like a siren’s song all over again. 

He nearly forgets what the man had even said.

“There was some sunscreen in there as well,” he recovers smoothly, easing back over to him with a softer but no less powerful hunger in his eyes.

“Your tongue needs UV protection too, y’know,” John quips back as his legs spread even more to accommodate Paul between them.

He chuckles, lifts an eyebrow. “Well, let’s not neglect yours then, either.”

Smiling, John opens his mouth beneath his and hums when their tongues brush languidly. He sucks at Paul’s tongue and licks into his mouth like he can’t get enough of his taste. The taste of Paul and himself and the intrusive sunscreen that reminds them both of where exactly they are and what they pulled off. 

Putting only the most minimal of distance between their lips, John murmurs, “I fucking love you.”

“Mm, love you too, Johnny. And those killer thighs of yours.”

“You’ve got nice legs yerself, y’know.”

“You think so?”

“Mmhm,” John murmurs as he flips their positions in a dizzying maneuver that topples Paul’s stomach. “I’d love to go back to the room and feel ‘em all wrapped round me. Squeezing my waist when you come again.”

“Fancy another go already?” he asks with an amused smirk, though he can’t deny how enticing that mental picture is. 

(Ankles locked together at John’s lower back, encouraging him deeper and deeper by the heels; clawing at his shoulder blades and evening the landscape with territorial marks of which his upper body never got a proper taste.

Fucking hell.)

John’s hand skates up the furry side of his thigh, guiding it around his waist like he, too, is indulging in the fantasy concocted by his own mind. His breath sends chills up Paul’s arm when he whispers in his ear, “Only one of us got to be buried in something tight and hot.”

Paul sighs, leaning into the words as if to hear more of them—perhaps even feel them. He claims John’s lips again before answering, “Let’s get this boat back to shore, baby.”

“Yessir.”

As much as Paul would enjoy basking in this stranded fantasy a little while longer, they both know people are waiting for them at the docks of reality. Together they slip their trunks back on, John dipping his in the water for a rinse of the evidence, but Paul soon realizes (with twisted amusement) there is only so much they can hide. 

“What’re we gonna do about all these bruises?” he asks, as he admires John’s body from a distance now, graffitied from Paul’s mouth and hands. 

“Eh?” But then it clicks as John looks down at the vague outline of a red, malformed handprint poking out from the leg of his swimsuit. A smile grows on his lips, gaze holding something akin to fondness or deep-seated satisfaction that has Paul’s heart quickening as he watches it all play out. “Me trunks’ll cover some of those,” he adds with an unbothered shrug.

Eyebrows raised, still unconvinced, Paul taps his own neck with a finger. “Gonna look a bit daft wearin’ a turtleneck on the beach, though.”

“Jellyfish stings,” he excuses simply, manning the helm of the boat again with more command than the man who was writhing on the floor from a slap to the thigh only moments ago. A switch flipped so incomprehensibly easy.

Paul shakes his head, laughing. “Only wanted yer neck, did they?”

“Went for the kill, the squishy bastards.”

Slipping up behind him with his own abandoned shirt from earlier, he gently wraps it around John’s shoulders like a towel to hide some of the hickeys. He kisses the soft skin behind his ear, hand smoothing up and down his side. 

“That should do it for now.”

John smiles at him sidelong. “Don’t lose that little sadist in you before we get back to the hotel now.”

“Don’t worry, love, it’s always in there.” He squeezes John’s shoulders tightly, murmuring next to his ear to warn, “And it’s not too keen on being told what to do.”

He finally steps away to rest against the stern of the boat and grins to himself when it gains speed, the docks and a promise for more quickly approaching in the distance.

**Author's Note:**

> hope this didn't disappoint! let me know what you think! I know I left it off like there might be a sequel, but I really don't know if I'll do one or not. I didn't plan for it, the ending just kinda turned out this way.
> 
> but! if you ever have any other ideas (either for John or paul's) for a fic to go in this series, send requests to [ my tumblr ](https://unchaineddaisychain.tumblr.com) and I'll get to them sometime between finishing my other chapter fics. the next one will probably that modern au I teased for on my blog. thanks for reading, love y'all!


End file.
